


That's A Trip

by PepperF



Series: Diego whump [16]
Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: 60s psychiatric care, Diego Hargreeves Needs A Hug, Drugs, Gen, Hallucinations, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Whumptober 2020, further examples of terrible
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:48:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27044515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PepperF/pseuds/PepperF
Summary: The Holbrook Sanitorium believes in a multifactorial approach to mental illness. They offer a wide selection of treatments with which to cure their inmates, including psychotherapy, arts and crafts, physical and technological interventions for the safety of both patients and staff, and also a complex pharmaceutical approach.Or, as Diego thought of it: if boredom and humiliation don't work, lock 'em up, electrocute 'em, and drug 'em until they're zombies.
Series: Diego whump [16]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1951318
Comments: 4
Kudos: 22
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	That's A Trip

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Bethany, in particular for her pep talks and cheerleading on finishing Whumptober!

The Holbrook Sanitorium believes in a multifactorial approach to mental illness. They offer a wide selection of treatments with which to cure their inmates, including psychotherapy, arts and crafts, physical and technological interventions for the safety of both patients and staff, and also a complex pharmaceutical approach.

Or, as Diego thought of it: if boredom and humiliation don't work, lock 'em up, electrocute 'em, and drug 'em until they're zombies.

He's treading a fine line, he's well aware, trying to avoid the worst that Holbrook can offer while at the same time appearing cooperative enough that they'll let their guard down and he can escape, or get discharged, but that seems unlikely. He tries to keep a balance, but sometimes, a man gets frustrated, and ends up pushing back when he's pushed far enough—and Diego had pushed back a little too hard. 

"Oh, no. No, no... Doc, you know how I feel about drugs."

"It's a short-course treatment, Diego. If it's effective, we may not even need to administer it a second time. Wouldn't you like to get better?"

"Sure," he lies. "But can't I just do some more finger painting?" He keeps his eyes fixed on the tiny pill in the doctor's hand. "What is it, anyhow?"

"Well, its pharmacological name is lysergic acid—"

"LSD? Fuck, no!"

"Oh, you know about LSD, do you?" Doctor Moncton exchanges a significant look with that orderly who hates Diego's guts.

"I told you, I don't do drugs," Diego repeats for probably the millionth time. "And I don't consent. I do not consent to this course of treatment, okay? I'm not taking that shit."

But Doctor Moncton smiles that patronising little smile that makes Diego want to punch him. "Diego. You're unwell, which means you're not mentally fit to understand the full ramifications of your decisions. It also means that we don't need your consent." He hands the pill to the orderly. "We're doing this for your own good."

Diego backs into a corner until he can't go any further. The orderly catches up and grips his flimsy white T-shirt with one meaty hand. "Take it, or I'll break your jaw and make you take it anyway," he says, just low enough that Doctor Moncton can't hear.

And Diego's learned the hard way that he means it, but he fights anyway. It's who he is. "No. Fuck you. Fuck this. I'm not letting you psychos give me LSD!"

In the end, it takes three of them to restrain him, and the good doctor is the one to drop it into Diego's mouth. They hold him until the pill melts on his tongue, and when they release him, he's left spitting up nothing.

"Should we put him in the cell?" asks the orderly.

"No, no. He shouldn't be a problem now," says Doctor Moncton, smugly. "Put him in his room. Call me if he does anything interesting."

\---

Twenty or so minutes later, Diego is beginning to think he might have gotten away with this. Maybe he managed to spit out enough of it, or they gave him an expired dose or something? Or maybe his system was just too strong for it—after all, aside from the past couple of weeks locked up in here, he's kept himself at peak fighting condition. Whatever the reason, he doesn't feel any differently, aside from sore where that heavy fucker sat on his legs. He stretches out his arms, and decides he might as well do some press-ups, as he's got the afternoon free.

The roll off the bed takes a surprisingly long time. By the time he hits the floor, he's not ready, and he smacks his nose into the carpet. "Ow! Fuck."

There's a snigger, and he looks up at the door, to where the orderly is watching him through the barred window. Diego gives him the finger, and struggles to his knees, feeling dizzy.

Well, shit, looks like he's not so immune after all—either that, or he really did just sink his hand into the metal frame of his bed like it's a cushion.

He tries again, experimental, and watches in fascination as the metal gives way under his grip. Is this what it's like all the time for Luther? Hell, has he finally caught up with the big guy?

Wait. 

But when he tears off his T-shirt, he finds his torso is still normal, thank god. He breathes a sigh of relief. And the air on his skin is pretty nice, actually. Is it getting hot in here?

He flops back against his bed, on the floor because getting up seems like too much effort. If this is what it's like for Klaus, he doesn't get the appeal. He feels spinny and nauseated, and too fucking hot, and he'd like to sleep it off, but his heartrate is going a mile a minute. He can already sense that the hangover is going to be terrible. And he's too hot.

He scratches irritably at a patch of skin that feels oddly dry and rough and—he looks down in a panic, and yelps when he sees the change. It's starting. Fuck, he's turning into an ape, like Luther! There must've been something else in that fucking pill, something that did this to him—shit, maybe it's a conspiracy, maybe it's _Dad—_

He staggers to his feet and over to the door, banging on it and demanding—he's not even sure what, but he wants out, he wants to go, he wants to be free...

All he hears is more sniggering from that fucking orderly, so close, like he's in the room or something. Diego spins wildly, catching the glimpse of a figure in the corner—but that can't be right, that looked like Eudora—he turns again, trying to catch her—and it's Mom, holding out her wrist to him. _Diego, remember what we practiced?_

"Mom?" He's never been scared of her, never, but her eyes glow with an unearthly blue light, and he killed her, so she should be angry with him, she has every right...

_Just try things my way?_

He turns again, and it's Eudora, walking towards him, looking annoyed, blood pouring down her torso like the last time he saw her—the last time he'll ever see her. "Eudora—I didn't—I never thought—"

_Well, I tried, Diego. And look where that got me._

"No! I never meant—I swear, if I'd had any idea—" He's begging, but he doesn't know for what—her understanding? It won't change anything, and it won't take away his guilt. "I'm sorry," he sobs. "I'm sorry, Eudora."

Christ, if this is what it's like for Klaus, suddenly the drugs make a lot more sense. If Dad shows up next, he doesn't know what he'll—

_He was my father too._

He whirls. "Vanya? No, you can't be here, you're not d...you're..."

The knowledge takes him to his knees. No, no, not the others, they can't be—they can't be dead?

But everywhere he looks, he sees them now, coming out of the shadows, first Vanya, and then Five, Allison, Klaus, Luther...even Ben...

_Diego? What's happening? Why is it so cold?_

_Diego? I can't reach you...what the hell is going on?_

_Diego! Help me, I need your help, please Diego, please!_

"No, nonononono..." he moans, pressing his face into the floor and his arms over his head. "You're not dead, you can't be dead! You're not really here, YOU'RE NOT HERE!"

He roars the last, trying desperately to overpower the sound of their voices, his brothers and sisters—and, like a switch has been flicked, they stop.

He risks a glance up, feeling his face wet with tears, but there's no one there. It's like he's spoken it into existence, he's stopped it. He sits up and shuffles back until he's in a corner with his knees up in front of him, shivering. "Five?" he whispers. "Luther?" 

There's no answer.

He doesn't know how long he sits there, but his limbs are numb when he finally uncurls enough to crawl towards the bed again. He's shaking, but he's got no idea if it's with cold, adrenaline, or fear. He grabs the sheet from the bed and pulls it down over him, wrapping it tightly around himself—the defensive tactic of a child. They've gone now, he tells himself. He made it stop. He told them to go, and they went.

But is that it? Has he pushed them away for good? What if that really was them, what if they were trying to communicate with him, one last time, and he sent them away? Did he make that happen? Fuck— _what if they never come back?_

He sits up in a sudden panic. "Klaus! Allison! Vanya, come on, you know I didn't mean it—come back!"

He calls their names until he's hoarse, over and over, names and numbers and nicknames and insults, but nothing works, nothing brings them back to him—he's banished them for good, thoughtlessly sent them away with words he wishes he could take back. All he has left is the cold, comfortless knowledge that he'd rather be haunted by their ghosts forever, rather than lose them. 

Eventually he falls silent. All that time apart from them, he always knew they were around, living out their lives in parallel with his own. He'd raise a glass to them on their shared birthday, and hope, deep down, that they were doing the same. Now, though—they've left him behind. If Klaus was telling the truth, maybe they're in the afterlife together, maybe they're happy and at peace... and he's here, alone. Lost in time, locked in an institution, and finally, utterly alone for the rest of his miserable existence. 

He's not sure he can stand it.

He curls around himself, and rubs at his chest, feeling achy and hollowed out with grief and loneliness. The room is dark and so silent that the nothingness folds back on itself and becomes a kind of noise, roaring through his mind and sucking all his thoughts down towards a black pit of despair and horror. He curls up more tightly still, but it's like a pressure on his insides, and he rolls over with a groan...and then looks down at himself as the first tentacles start to push their way out...

Diego screams.

\---

"Anything interesting?"

"Doctor," greets Karl, the orderly. He's been glancing into Hargreeves' room periodically, keeping an eye on him. "Not really. He's been kinda thrashing around in there, throwing out some names. He's on the floor at the moment. Looks like a bad trip."

Doctor Moncton winces as a scream resounds from the room, loud even through the acoustic dampening they had built into the walls. "Unfortunate," he sighs. "I don't suppose this will help, after all. If you could get me a list of those names, though, that would be appreciated."

"Sure thing, doc."

"Thanks, Karl." Whistling softly, Doctor Moncton continues on with his rounds.


End file.
